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Sitting at the dressing table in the quiet sanctuary of Hentmirë’s
guest room, Eowyn combed and braided her hair.
At first, the miserable thoughts kept coming back to her. But
she remembered her promise to Legolas and, muttering, angrily,
“Get out of my head!” whenever they surfaced, she gradually
found that they were disturbing her less and less.
At length, when her candle had burned low and she was finding
it hard to keep her eyes open, she laid down her comb, and rose;
but, as she was turning back the bedclothes, she suddenly felt
a presence, outside the window, watching over her.
Legolas, she thought; and, smiling, she opened the window
and leaned out. She could see no sign of him, but that did not
surprise her, for she had long since learned that a human will
never see an elf who does not want to be seen.
“It is working, Lassui,” she called.
And, as she pushed the window shut, she heard the branches, high
above her, rustle in reply.
…
Next morning
When Legolas arrived for breakfast, he found Hentmirë’s
house in chaos.
“Hentmirë has already eaten,” said Eowyn, taking
him by the arm, and leading him through the crowd of men, elves
and dwarves thronging the lobby, “but I waited for you.”
“What is going on?”
“Word has got out—and do not ask me how—that Gimli
has asked for volunteers to help track down the tad-dail and,
for some reason, they have all decided to congregate here—I
think most of them are hoping for a ride in Hentmirë’s
carriage.”
“And who put Thorkell bogsveigir in charge?” Legolas
nodded a brief greeting to the tall, saturnine man, who was valiantly
trying to impose some order on the enthusiastic recruits.
“Your father,” said Eowyn. “He is to escort Hentmirë
to Eryn Valen, and then return.”
They escaped into the breakfast room and pushed the door closed
behind them. “You seem so much better this morning, melmenya,”
said Legolas, pulling out a chair for her. “How are you feeling—truthfully?”
He sat down beside her.
“I am fine.” She gave him a grateful smile. “As
I told you last night, your method worked.”
“Last night?”
“When you were sitting up in the trees.”
Legolas shook his head.
“You were not?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I did not leave our bedchamber, melmenya.”
“Then who was it?”
“What did you see of him?”
“I did not see anything, Lassui; that is why I was so sure
it was you.” Eowyn frowned. “But I did feel you—at
least, I thought I did. And I heard the leaves rustle… Oh gods,
you do not think—”
“No.” Legolas caught hold of her hands. “No,
from your description of their feet I am quite sure that the tad-dail
are no climbers, melmenya. But I will have a look up there, myself,
as soon as we have spoken to Cyllien—and I will ask Captain
Golradir to double his night patrols.”
…
Later
After waving goodbye to Hentmirë and her motley army—“Do
not forget, Legolas—Donatiya will be watching over Eowyn
tonight,”—they climbed back up to their chambers to
find a man waiting to speak to them.
“Captain Golradir says I should come to you, sir,”
he said.
Legolas noted the man’s warm clothing and his leather money
apron. “You must be one of the market traders,” he said.
"That I am sir. I comes ’ere regular, every month,
and stays for two or three days. I ’as a regular clientele.”
"And what can we do for you, Master…?"
“Osborn, sir. I ’eard about the murder and, well, I
think I seen something.”
“Come in,” said Legolas. They took him into the study.
“Are you saying that you were near the building works that
night, Master Osborn?” asked Eowyn.
“No miss—er, ma’am—no, I seen this earlier,
in the afternoon.”
“Go on,” said Legolas.
“I ’ave a regular customer, sir, a lady, and that afternoon
she comes to me to buy. Then I sees ’im, ’Eral the carpenter,
dragging ’er into an alleyway—well I was all set to
go after ’em, sir—’er bein a good customer, and
’im bein’—well you wouldn’t wish ’im
on the wife of your worst enemy…
“Anyway, I was about to go after ’em, like I says,
when someone else beats me to it—an elf, like, all dressed
in green with ’is ’ood up over ’is ’air. ’E
follows ’em, and then I ’ears a scuffle, and then ’Eral
comes out, doin’ up ’is breeches and cursin’, and
then the lady and the stranger come out, arm in arm, and ’e
leads ’er off towards the palace.”
“Doing up his breeches?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Can you tell us anything more about this elf?” asked
Legolas.
The man shook his head. “’E was ’ooded, sir. I
couldn’t see ’is face.”
“Then how did you know he was an elf?”
“Oh, ’is bearing sir. ’E was—well, ’e
was like you, sir. Tall, and royal-lookin’”
“What about the lady?” asked Eowyn. “You say that
she is a regular customer. Do you know her name?”
“I don’t ask questions, miss.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Just a lady, miss.”
Eowyn glanced at Legolas. “What is it you sell, Master Osborn?”
The man grinned, understanding her question. “Pipeweed,
miss.”
…
They gave the man a small reward and, after he had gone, Eowyn
took out her wax tablet and they settled down to discuss what
they had learned so far.
Galathil brought them a tray of cakes and bubbling water.
“The pipe-smoking ‘lady’ must be Cyllien,”
said Eowyn, making a note. “If Heral was ‘doing up his
breeches’ as the man said, he must have raped her, or tried
to—which would certainly give Haldir a motive—but this
strange elf is our most likely suspect, and the sooner we speak
to Cyllien, and find out who he is, the better.”
“There is a slight complication there, melmenya,” said
Legolas. He poured two glasses of water and handed one to Eowyn.
“And are you going to tell me what it is?”
He cut her a slice of cake. “When I went to see my father,
to tell him about the murder, Cyllien was there—all painted
and perfumed and wearing the flimsiest of gowns.”
“And he was laying on the charm, no doubt,”
said Eowyn, licking lavender icing from her thumb.
“He told me that she had come to sing for him—”
“Oh gods! You are saying that he is the strange elf!”
“It is entirely possible, melmenya. Probable.”
“But—could he have killed Heral?”
“He is more than capable in a fight, Eowyn nin; but Heral
was murdered, stabbed through the heart and left to die—”
“And then mutilated,” said Eowyn. “Yes.”
She took another bite of cake. “You know, Lassui—perhaps
it is unkind of me—but the only person I can think of, unhappy
enough to have done something like that, is Cyllien herself.”
…
They decided that they must speak to Cyllien immediately; but,
before they could leave, Galathil announced that Master Bawden
was asking to see them.
“Show him in,” said Legolas.
“I have found the missing plank my Lord, my Lady,”
said the craftsman builder, taking the seat that Legolas offered
him. “And I think it does have a bearing on Heral’s
death.” He drew a cloth-wrapped package from his pocket and
set it down on the low table between them. “No, please do
not open it, my Lord; not until I have left.”
Legolas glanced at Eowyn. She frowned. “What is it, Master
Bawden?”
“An abomination, my Lady.” The man leaned back in his
chair. “You see, when a building is erected, it’s right
and proper for the builders to leave the odd offering for the
wights who might come to inhabit it. We wall them up, in the frame
of the building, where only the spirits can find them. And that
is what Heral had done, using the missing plank—only the
thing he walled up wasn’t an offering, my Lady, it—well,
you’ll see. Just, please, be very careful when you open it,
my Lord. Now, if you would be so kind as to excuse me…”
“Yes,” said Legolas, staring down at the package, “of
course—thank you, Master Bawden.”
“Thank you, my Lord. And I will have that list of
names you asked for by tomorrow.”
…
“What do you suppose that was about?” asked Eowyn,
as Bawden closed the door behind him. Then, “You had better
open it.”
Legolas picked up the object, untied its cloth wrapping, and
held it out for Eowyn to see.
“Gods,” she gasped.
It was the figure of a man, about six inches tall, and modelled
in beeswax. His head was smallish, and wrapped in a strand of
coarse blond hair, his body sturdy, and his limbs thick, save
for his tapered ankles and tiny feet. But what had surprised Eowyn,
what had provoked her oath, was his phallus, longer than his legs
and fully four times as thick, rising proudly from between his
powerful thighs. A braid of darker hair had been bound round its
root, as though to maintain its magnificent erection.
“Well…” said Eowyn. “Now we know why Heral
was in the building works that night—he was trying to cast
some sort of spell. This must be his own hair,”—she
touched the blond lock, and it slipped from the beeswax scalp
and fell to the floor—“and I wonder if this,”—she
fingered the braided ring—“could be Cyllien’s?”
“From everything we have heard, melmenya,” said Legolas,
hoarsely, “I would not have thought that Heral needed magical
help.”
“No. But perhaps,”—Eowyn frowned, thinking aloud—“perhaps
he was afraid of losing his potency and intended this as an investment
for the future. Or perhaps he was just greedy and wanted more.”
She stroked the braided ring again…
Then her finger strayed, up the thick beeswax shaft and around
the big, beautifully shaped head, until her fingertip came to
rest in its carefully-modelled opening, and she caressed it.
“Oh!” Legolas dropped the figurine.
They stared at one another.
“I have no idea why I did that, Lassui,” said Eowyn.
“I just—”
“Oh,”—Legolas’ eyes opened wide—“oh
Valar!” And he leaped up and fled from the chamber.
…
Through the lobby Legolas ran, angrily waving Galathil aside,
and he plunged into the bed chamber, and wrenched open the bathing
room door, and scrambled into the bath tub fully clothed; then
he pulled on the chain to release water from the tank above, and
cried out in shock as the cold stream hit his body, which was
burning with desire in every pore.
His phallus was a red hot weight between his thighs.
“Legolas?” Eowyn had followed him.
“No!” he shouted. “No! Stay away!” He grasped
the handle of the water pump and, working it wildly, knelt in
the gushing flow. “Ah!”
“Legolas,” cried Eowyn, frantically, “please:
tell me what is wrong!”
“I—oh no! Valar, please, no!” He scooped up handfuls
of cold water and threw them into his groin, wailing in agony.
But nothing he tried would quench the terrible fire and, finally
submitting to his basest instincts, he tore open his leggings
and took himself in both hands and—“Sweet Eru,”
he sobbed—the unbearable pain immediately gave way to an
overwhelming pleasure as, rocking back and forth, he stroked himself
desperately.
“Lassui, let me help you!”
“No—ah—no—no!”
But she climbed into the bath beside him, and he was too far
gone to stop her; and her warm little hands took hold of him,
and her soft, wet mouth engulfed him, and suddenly every particle
of his body—of his belly, his thighs, his penis and testicles—was
bursting apart as, clinging to her in a futile attempt to keep
himself whole, he came and came and came.
…
“Well,” whispered Eowyn.
“Mmmm.” Legolas held her close.
“Technically, we did not make love, so no one else need
ever know,”—she craned her head back to look at the
elf, and his expression of pure, satisfied bliss brought a smile
to her own face—“as long as they do not see you like
this.” She kissed his forehead. “Come, Lassui—we
must dry you and put you to bed.”
…
It was hard work—for the elf was boneless in the aftermath
of his orgasm—but, eventually, Eowyn managed to get him undressed
and into bed, and he immediately fell into reverie.
Exhausted—and not a little frustrated—she sat down
at the dressing table. The wax figure is a charm, she thought,
there can be no doubt of that—a frighteningly powerful
charm intended to give Heral limitless sexual potency.
Unconsciously, she opened her jewel box.
Somehow, its effect has been transferred to Legolas. But how?
She tipped her jewels out onto the table.
A sudden vision of her elf, driven mad by magical need, thrusting
inside her, hard and deep, turned her belly to water. She closed
her eyes and rode out the wave of peverse desire. No, she
thought. No, this is all wrong.
She rose and, quickly making sure that Legolas was settled, she
returned to the study determined to destroy the figurine—still
unaware that she was holding her jewel box.
The thing was lying where Legolas had dropped it, miraculously
intact despite the fragility of the beeswax, its huge phallus
still standing, proudly erect. Eowyn crouched down beside it;
and the very sight of it seemed to feed her frustration, kindling
within her a raging hunger, an obsessive need to touch it—to
stroke it—to feel that enormous member—
NO.
Dragging her eyes from the figure, she leaned her head against
the leg of the desk. It is evil, she thought, created
to ruin women. So I must destroy it, crush it underfoot.
Yes—
No!
No, what would that do to Legolas?
Suddenly, she was panting with fear. No. No, but I must conceal
it—yes, hide it somewhere completely safe, where Lassui cannot
see or touch it—
And that, she realised, is exactly what Heral
was doing when he was killed!
She scrambled to her feet. The cloth that Master Bawden had used
to conceal the thing—very sensibly, she now understood—was
lying on the desk, and beside it—inexplicably—was her
own empty jewel box. She scooped them up and, taking a deep breath
and holding it, she knelt down, dropped the cloth over the figurine,
lifted it into the jewellery box—it fitted perfectly—and
shut the lid. She set the box on the desk.
Good!
Desire was still teasing her vitals, but now the feeling was
nowhere near so urgent. And, anyway, she thought, what
do you expect after pleasuring Lassui in the bathing room?
Sitting on the floor, she leaned back against the desk, and tried
to think.
Somehow, the charm that Heral had intended for himself had become
attached to Legolas. How?
She thought back to what had happened. Lassui was holding
the figurine, and I was stroking it… She blushed. But—oh
gods, before that—the hair—the hair was Heral’s,
and I pulled it off—when the hair was in place, the figure
was Heral; the moment it had gone, Legolas’ touch
was enough to transform it into him.
Thank the gods I did not destroy it!
But… What if I were to replace the hair?
She hunted for the tiny blond coil and, eventually, found it
lying on the floor, beside her favourite chair.
She reached for the jewel box. There is no way to replace
it without unwrapping the figurine, she thought. But I
must be very careful. Gingerly, she opened the lid and lifted
up the flap of fabric.
For a long moment she simply stared at the figurine, captivated
by the beauty of its phallus; then she stretched out her forefinger
and stroked the wax. Hot desire pooled between her legs and, through
their bond, she knew that Legolas, though in reverie, was hardening
in response to her touch.
Somehow, she pulled her hand away.
I must get someone else to do it, she thought, slamming
the lid shut. But whom can I trust?
…
Hours later
“My Lady?”
Eowyn opened her eyes. Galathil was standing at the study door,
looking down at her with undisguised alarm.
How long had she been asleep? Was she decent? “I…
I dropped something,” she lied, “on the floor. I was
looking for it.” Then, “Yes. What is it?”
“The March Warden, my Lady, wishes to speak to Lord Legolas.
He says it is urgent.”
“Lord Legolas is resting.” Carefully arranging her
skirt, Eowyn drew her legs up beneath her and rose as elegantly
as she could, smoothing her gown over her waist and hips. “Tell
him I will—”
“Eowyn,”—Haldir pushed his way into the chamber—“it
is urgent.”
He was standing so close—tall, broad, heavy, and smelling
of musk—why had she never noticed his scent before? Eowyn
swallowed hard. “That will be all Galathil.” Her voice
sounded surprisingly even. “Take a seat Haldir.” She
turned her back on him. “As I said, Legolas is resting. But
you can speak to me.” She walked over to the sideboard. “Would
you like a drink?”
“No. Eowyn…” Something in his voice made her
turn to face him, despite her acute discomfort.
“I did it,” said the big elf. “I killed
the carpenter.”
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